


The Lie-In

by KendylGirl



Series: When to Let Go [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Short & Sweet, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-02 06:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11503668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendylGirl/pseuds/KendylGirl
Summary: Five months after his return, John and Sherlock spend a day in bed.





	The Lie-In

His hair fringe creates a delicate golden fan against the khaki pillowcase.His chin tilts downward slightly toward his bare chest, just touching the thumb of my left hand where it cradles his neck.Blonde lashes move faintly against his cheek, following visions in his sleep.

Soft needles of rain click against the window.The afternoon light is grey but bright, and a square of light falls on John’s cheek and jawbone.I breathe thinly through my mouth so that the only other noise I hear is him, the susurrations of air through his nostrils, deep and regular.Unconsciously, I follow his pattern, in and out, in and out.It is like a dance he doesn’t know he’s leading.

And John never knows, but he always leads.I’ve learned to bluster and stalk, to make proclamations and flounce my intellect around, but in the end, I know it is meaningless because I am ruled by the glint in his eye and the soft smile on his narrow lips.I would bend myself in half over an open flame and pull pound notes from my ears to win those subtle gestures, to feel the small, strong hand slip into mine and give it a brief squeeze.That’s all he has to do, and I’m practically weak-kneed with joy and want.

It is so pathetic.I’ll never tell him.

(He already knows.)

My arm is tingling.I really should withdraw it, shake it out and restore its circulation before it starts to ache.

I would sooner pull it from its socket and toss it down the stairs.

Instead, I tighten it a bit and press his shoulder blades closer against my chest.I tilt my hips forward to secure the seal all the way down, cross my shins with his and lay the soles of my feet on the tops of his.He is warm, so warm.I never need to pull up the duvet as I did years ago.Too present are the memories of endless frigid nights while he was away, black and empty as the inside of my chest.I was never warm while John was gone.I froze in the depths of summer.The sun could not reach me.One August day had climbed to thirty-six degrees, but I swore I could see a fog from my breath.Such a concept seems improbable and silly now, easy to scoff at on a quiet afternoon, in the muted daylight, with John in my arms.But I will never forget the cold.Much about those months is a blur, but the cold remains as a lingering specter of what I thought I’d lost.

All I need to survive, to blanket myself in blissful warmth, is John Watson, my perfect living furnace. 

Since his return to me, I have tried (poorly) to be coy.I have effused many inane monologues on the ideal methods to warm human skin, the best and most efficient being skin-to-skin contact.He listens, ocean blue eyes never letting me escape or play it off as anything other than the plea that it is.“You just want me naked, don’t you?”I try to act offended, try to pivot to his medical knowledge or the objective costs of interior heating in modern English homes.I never can bring myself to the point of indignation, nor do I deny it.How could I?When he giggles and pulls me close, holds me with nothing but his hypnotic gaze and two thumbs rubbing my hip bones, I am helpless. 

When he leans up on his tip-toes to whisper in my ear, “You know you can have whatever you like, you madman,” and kisses the sensitive spot behind my jaw, I am a slave.

I nestle my nose in the crux of his neck, inhaling deeply.My studies of chemistry, as intense as they have been, can do nothing for my comprehension for how John Watson can change an ordinary mixture of bar soap, laundry detergent, and hormones into a scent so intoxicating, addictive to a degree that opioids could never begin to match. _Delicious._ I don’t want to wake him, but I absolutely cannot stop myself from tasting the delicate skin, kissing the nape of his neck and moving my lips slowly over his trapezius muscle and around to his clavicle, then once to the column of his throat.

I watch his face closely.His static eyelids and unchanged brow show me he is still asleep, yet he shifts slightly and sighs, turning minutely so that more of his neck is exposed to me.He melts further against me, lips parted slightly.My heart stutters.It’s a subconscious invitation of trust he’s offered to me, a desire that links us constantly, even in dreams.

I will never cease to marvel at this.I have studied John Watson from every conceivable angle.I have watched him work, read, cook, eat, run, and speak.I have heard him scream, and I have seen him cry, bleed, and vomit.I have watched him sleep innumerable times in innumerable ways.I know everything there is to know about his habits, his tastes, his beliefs.I can predict his responses, identify his reactions, to an infinity of situations.Still, he never ceases to amaze me, to startle and transfix me, like nothing and no one else ever has.

I love him.

Typically, I try not to think about this immutable fact with much frequency.I try not to be charmed by the 1980’s pop songs he sings in the shower.I try not to smile when he giggles at the same spots in movies we’ve seen a dozen times.I try not to watch his tongue worry the corner of his mouth when he writes notes, and I try not to watch his rear when he wears that one certain pair of dark jeans.I try not to touch him constantly, especially at crime scenes, and I try not to blush when he looks at me with wide-eyed amazement when another impossible case is solved.

I try, and with as much frequency, I fail.Spectacularly.Every single time.

I should be ashamed by this, but I’m not.I should pull back and protect myself, but I don’t.

I love him.  It's impossibly simple yet horribly complex, gripping me completely, woven now into my very DNA.

I _love_ him.

It is the only thing I have known with absolute certainty in my entire life.

And, in an amazing twist of fate, by some bizarre cataclysm of universal principles, due to a completely fortuitous alignment of invisible atoms and navigational lines of force—he loves me, too.

Thus, when the sleeping bundle of John Watson, offers more of himself to me, I am incapable of resisting.I bend forward and draw lazy circles with my tongue up the protruding tendon of his neck and around the curve of his jawbone.My lungs feel tight, my stomach flutters.I stretch further to pull his earlobe between my lips, then swish it gently back and forth with my tongue.

John settles further back, emitting a soft groan.I can feel my innards liquify and drip in hot, messy blobs into a pool in my groin.My right hand spreads and pushes his abdomen firmly.My hips move involuntarily, circling against his buttocks.My teeth sink into his shoulder joint to stifle the deep moan that I can feel rising from my core.

John hums and moves his hand down to mine, interlacing our fingers.“Sherlock…” He says my name as a breath, a sigh.It is beautiful, an erotic sound that makes my eyes fall closed.I feel John kiss my cheek and shift onto his back so he can pull me on top of him.The liquid heat that has pooled in my groin hardens sharply.He moves his left hand down to grasp my other hand, then raises our arms over hishead, aligning our hips and hitching his legs up along my sides, caging me in.

I look down into his face.His eyes are fixed on me, completely open, letting me read whatever I need to in their depths.I grind down and slide against him rhythmically.He squeezes my hands tighter and pushes up to kiss me.I lean into it with a grateful sigh, working my tongue around his, wishing I could crawl into his mouth and let him swallow me whole.

I break off so that I can see him, the flush of his cheeks, his wet and swollen lips, the blackness of his eyes when his pupils are blown wide.

“Mmm, Sherlock, you feel so good…Jesus...so good…”

God help me, he is perfect.I don’t deserve him.I’ve done nothing to earn the cocoon of protection he wraps me up in, the tender care that he lavishes on me.He is beautiful.He is everything.

I clutch his hands so tightly my knuckles are white.He holds my gaze intently.“John…I love you, John.I love you I love you I love you I love you…”My eyes never leave his, even when our pleasure crests and cries rip from my throat until I’m hoarse.

John’s legs still bracket me as I tingle and pant.We both glisten with sweat.I slide my hands under his shoulders and roll us.He gives a surprised grunt and chuckles as he looks down into my face.“Oh, hello there.”He smiles softly and runs a hand through my hair.

_My God, I love this man._

“Hi.”

It’s all I can say.I feel a hot prickling behind my eyes, and my voice will not steady enough to offer more.

But John—my sweet, wonderful, perceptive John—already knows.He brushes my cheekbone with the backs of his knuckles.“It's all right,” he whispers.“Me, too.”

He lays his head on my shoulder and wraps me up in his arms.I squeeze my eyes shut and hold onto him fiercely, sealing our bodies as tightly as I can. _Closer, closer._ But no matter how tight my grasp, it will never be close enough.

Finally, John shifts to my left side and looks toward the window.“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Nope.”

“Mmm hmm.And you’re not getting twitchy yet?”

“Nope.”

He leans on his elbow as his hand absently massages the back of my neck.“Really?I thought you’d be bored if we actually spent all day in bed.”

I scoop up his other hand and bring it to my lips.I raise an eyebrow.“Nope.”

He laughs, eyes twinkling.“I can’t believe it!Sherlock Holmes, you never cease to amaze me.”

My tongue darts out and licks at his index finger.“Ditto.”

That gets me a high-pitched giggle.No symphony could produce a sound that would enrapture me more.

_John, I love you immeasurably._

He purses his lips and drops his gaze to my chest.“Well,” he drawls, “you know what would surprise me more?”

“Yes.”

He looks up quickly.“You know what I’m going to say?”

I nod.

He swats my arm.“You do not!”

I shake my head with mock sadness.“Oh, John, you poor thing.”I clear my throat.“You, Dr. Watson, would be desperately surprised if I ordered some food, an early dinner of Hunan chicken and a vegetable egg roll.And I’d better be sure they include the duck sauce and hot mustard this time.”

His face blanks.

“And I should grab those trays from the top of the fridge so we can eat in here because you really have no desire to get up and put pants on.”

He just stares at me.

My lips quirk.“How did I do?”

He blinks, voice deadpan.“I’m so turned on right now.”

I bite my bottom lip.“Oh, then my plan is working _perfectly_.”

A slow smile works its way onto his features until he is beaming.“Just wait until dessert.”

**Author's Note:**

> I live for your comments--please tell me what you think!


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